Angel Island - Patria Brown

[Lawrence Robinson]

Angel Island

One more of mushrooms, this late winter 
turns against all odds into an early spring. 

Intense,wet, yellow parasols thrust towards 
the sun, beige buttons nestling in lichen—

The moss— orange, gold platters full of rain 
fall over onto beds of bay laurel leaves. Pale 

Fibers floating in water— soft infant’s touch—
wet kiss on tiny earlobes, glistening fine 

Strands of hair— new as life's fresh scent. Before 
Coast Méwok, in boats woven of tule reed, using 

Deep strokes paddling through straits, set dense 
woods on fire to clear land to hunt. Now in the ferry, 

Using binoculars, guidebooks. White oaks encircle 
the summit trail— filtering light—our heads bent, 

Footsteps resolute, even-steady— brush strokes on 
my daughter's corn silk hair— her ringlets escaping 

Intention of a ponytail, coiling around her neck. 
Cucumber vines wind up manzanita— on the path, 
a clump of Narcissus— white as milk, fragrant as a breast. 
Hairpin turn— a hummingbird hovers in a canyon

Of madrone. Pale green wings flutter in the light— 
relentless work to stay put.  She is the soul of my mother. 

Dive! Dive down to the earth for nectar! In one straight line, 
she has gone— I am left.

I have been waiting my whole life like this. Loss,
the strongest emotion— a knife in the chest.
Before the Coast Méwok expelled from this island 
across the bay to Mission Dolores. 

This morning, access for hikers is argued in Sacramento. 
A blue butterfly shudders across the path. 

At the very top of the trail, we call out names: Mt. Tam, 
Diablo, Hamilton, San Bruno, Umunum, Ring Mountain.

The line of vision— a bright umbilicus. Before this, navel 
of the bay was used to quarantine diseased soldiers 

Returning from the Phillippines, to detain undesirable immigrants 
from the far east. Today we are held in joy—

Island from still deep waters— bawling. Banished angels with palms 
outstretched, reaching for the light.

	- Patria Brown